Suspended Animation
by theherocomplex
Summary: He doesn't change, but he's got a reason to count the years.


A one-shot for pandasize, who helped to pull me out of _Ghost'_s incurable melancholy.

* * *

For a life that's spent fighting evil - for a life that should be _impossible_, if science and logic are to be believed - Donatello spends a great deal of time bored.

"_How_?" asks Michelangelo. He's got wide-eyed innocence down to an art-form, but he can always be counted on to spoil his own effects. "How can you be _bored?" _

Donatello tries to answer, but in the end he can't muster anything more than a shrug. Michelangelo gapes at him, and gestures around the room, where the books, movies, video games, and even the half-finished game of Risk seem to exist to prove Donatello wrong.

"But - but -!" Michelangelo gives up on his sentence and glares at Donatello, like he's taken personal offense at the way Donatello just rejected everything in the room. Chances are very good he is_._

_Things aren't the answer_, Donatello wants to tell his brother. Since that would lead to questions about what the answer actually _is_, he leaves Michelangelo to yell at _Grand Theft Auto V, _and heads for the lab_. _

* * *

He's not sixteen anymore, hasn't been for almost a decade, but if he didn't have the grey in Splinter's fur and ten years' worth of experiments to go by, he might not believe any time had passed. Leonardo is still the tallest, Raphael is still the angriest, Michelangelo is still the peacemaker.

Donatello will always be the smart one. The designation is still a point of pride, but it's begun to feel claustrophobic.

_I don't look any older, _he thinks. He presses his tongue to the gap in his teeth. _A few chips in the shell and that's it. _

It's a little like suspended animation. Maybe he sleeps more, maybe he can run faster, but a day or a century could pass between each time he goes above ground and he would barely notice. What's the point of counting years if he and his brothers don't change?

His computer chimes with an incoming message. He reads it, and types a quick - not too quick - reply.

There's at least one point to counting.

_Be there in twenty. _

* * *

April's already set up on the roof of her building when he swings up the fire escape: a thermos full of coffee, two blankets, a flashlight. She's using the flashlight to read, gnawing at her lower lip as she squints to see the fine print.

"You'll ruin your eyes, reading like that," he says by way of greeting.

She looks up and wrinkles her nose at him. "Hey you." She marks her place with her finger and shuts the book. Her freckles have started to fade.

_Must be autumn_, he thinks, and takes the seat next to her. April passes him the thermos and stretches while he drinks. It's black, the way they both like it, tar-thick and hot enough to scald the roof of his mouth. "Thanks."

"No problem." She tucks it between her feet and huddles under her blanket. "It's getting cold. I know you guys hate the winter, but I can't wait for snow."

"Mmm." They're silent for a long time, handing the coffee back and forth until the thermos is empty. April fidgets. He nudges her; when she looks up, she's embarrassed.

"Sorry. Just stressing about this test tomorrow."

Donatello nudges her again. "You'll be fine. You always are. I helped you study, remember?"

"All my successes are thanks to you, huh?" She laughs and pulls her hands from under the blanket. She's holding two dandelions, full and white as cotton.

"Wow," he deadpans at her. "Flowers in the city. The novelty. How did you find them?"

"Shut up," she says, and laughs again. "They're for luck."

That's new to him. He hasn't been bored since he sat down, but this is _interesting._ "For luck?"

"Yeah." She presses one into his hands. "You blow the clocks - the seeds - off, and if you get them all, you get to make a wish. These two were growing down in front of my building. Figured I could use a good wish or two before tomorrow, but you can do this one. Just make sure you wish for the right thing."

Donatello watches her blow the clocks away, into the wind and down into the alley between buildings, then imitates her.

"Aw, dammit," says April. A few stubborn clocks still cling to the top. She tosses her stem off the roof. "Guess I might fail no matter how much you helped."

He glances at the bare stem in his hand and smiles. "You'll be fine," he says. She sighs, and he almost feels bad that he made a different wish. Almost.

His wish has been waiting a lot longer than hers, after all.


End file.
